


long way home

by flo_4tesq



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14590758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flo_4tesq/pseuds/flo_4tesq
Summary: two men in a boat at the end of the world looking for a home.





	long way home

They are two men surrounded by blue.  
One has blue eyes, or maybe they are green.  
One has brown eyes, but maybe they are red.  
They are two men surrounded by held breaths and unspoken accusations.  
Sometimes, there are memories of an office, of suits and ties, of blood-covered hands. They do not belong here, not to the endless sea in which they are but guests.  
One of them, the red-eyed one, stays below deck, endlessly creating something out of barely anything at all. His hair grows longer, his body softer.  
The other, the one with the scars on his soul and body alike, grows tan and rugged in the salty wind, his beard covering the scars he does not want.  
When they talk, it is in riddles neither of them understand, and when they kiss, they do not know how they got there.  
At night they don't sleep together, and then they do. They don't question that transition. They have long stopped questioning things they do not want changed.  
They talk without saying anything, love with their eyes closed.  
When one of them cries, the other pretends he does not hear it.  
It is survival. It is two ghosts who couldn't let themselves die, in case the other lived.  
There are cracks in everything, their voices can be heard with mouths closed.  
They are not healing, and they squeeze each other's hand while carving their sorrows into the flesh of their thighs.  
Names no longer exist. They don't need to be said, not when one talks there is no one else to hear but the other.

The sand feels like something too real for these two ghosts, the key in his hand too solid and cold to the touch. When the door opens, the air smells stale, unbreathable after weeks (years? Time hasn't waited for them in so long.) at sea.  
“Home,” he says, and briefly, it doesn't mean anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i didnt rly plan on posting this but i was like clearing out/looking over my drafts and i dont think id ever like.. change anything about this ? not in the sense that i think its perfect but in the sense that i wrote this a while ago and am not in the same mindset anymore, SO kat convinced me 2 post it.. find me on tumb @ cysphoria if ya like


End file.
